


John Laurens/Reader - Our Most Recent Correspondence

by Amorentia_Quibble



Series: Hamilton Story Series [2]
Category: Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: Established Relationship, Other, Reader has no defined gender, lots of letters, reader has an illness that keeps them from the war
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-30
Updated: 2017-10-18
Packaged: 2019-01-07 04:37:07
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,004
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12225891
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Amorentia_Quibble/pseuds/Amorentia_Quibble
Summary: You do your part for the cause you so love from home whilst war rages on, and the only way to keep in touch with your love is through letters. You just wish you could write as wonderfully as John Laurens.A short story because I'm trying to get out of my writing funk. Hope you enjoy!





	1. Please Return In One Piece

_ My dearest John, _

_ A deeper apology could not be made for my lack of correspondence on my behalf in relation to your most recent letters. Indeed, the war has kept all here busy, even without our being on the front lines alongside you and the other men we miss so dearly. I have been drafting letters against slavery during my absence, similar to what you and your companions surely must be doing whenever you find a spare moment. It would not surprise me if you found a way to protest whilst you fight, lecturing the Red Coats on matters of Slavery whilst charging on horseback. With how great your passion is, I'm shocked to hear that the British Forces have not decided to become American themselves. Whilst my words and writings are not nearly as persuasive and passionately put as those you put to paper, I can only hope my efforts aid in an eventual victory for our fellow brethren in chains. It would be the least I could do for the cause whilst you uphold such beliefs still in the brutality of battle. _

_ I wish that I could be out in the streets to protest more vocally, but the streets are a danger to be out in alone. Whilst I would not like to divulge too much in the event of this letter being compromised, there is no denying that those opposing our own beliefs and prayers for freedom roam freely without those to defend us in the streets. I myself have had to act in defence of myself on multiple occasions - I will gladly admit to how helpful our little training sessions were in such endeavours, but the injuries I sustained due to these such confrontations are not looking their best, at this time, despite these confrontations being weeks ago. The doctors have been inundated as of late with returning soldiers, and a few harmless injuries are certainly not enough for me to bother one of these poor men. I just pray that they do not worsen in the time between sending this letter and receiving one in reply.  _

_ I wonder of your endeavours in the south, and of the successes you have surely had thus far. I received word from Mister Mulligan about numerous victories, but hearing such from you would be a great joy. _

_ I miss you dearly. Come home in one piece- _

 

Scrapped.

 

The fourth letter you'd written that night scrunched into a ball of parchment and thrown across the room, inkwell almost empty with how much you'd written that night alone. You'd procured lengthy, convoluted monologues, short sonnets, anything to try and convey your words as graciously as you could, but always found yourself falling short. It had been a month since last receiving a letter from John Laurens, the man you had been seeing before war broke out, and you had not written in reply for at least three. You had to say something, but the passionate speeches you loved to read on freedom and abolishment of slavery were so profound and moving that replying with anything less spectacular would feel, to you, like an insult to Laurens himself. Writing was never a strong suit of yours. You could articulate well enough through word of mouth, but you'd always found your place around science and numbers, a fact that startled most besides the close group of friends you'd acquired. However, with you at home, unfit for battle due to your unfortunate Hemophilia, you were alone, without the support of those who saw the greatness and intellect within you.

 

But Laurens... Of everyone you truly missed Laurens the most.

 

Before encountering him in a local bar, never would you have seen yourself lobbying for other's rights, for women's rights, the rights of slaves, fighting for general equality. But with how fiery he had been about the subjects, with thoughts he seemed to have been holding in for his entire life, you almost felt a switch flick, like you had found the one thing you wanted to do. It was perhaps a blessing that the man had been too inebriated to walk home alone, leaving you to aid him to the house just down the street from the bar, thank the lord. But knowing his address, you quickly began to write on the regular, with him following suit. You would meet and protest in person when possible, along with the three other friends you'd made that same night, Hercules Mulligan, Alexander Hamilton and Marquis de Lafayette. The five of you had worked to campaign for change, even if it did little to change anything, but Laurens always assured that change couldn't happen overnight. 

 

_ I may not live to see our glory... _

 

That was something he said often. He cared not if he received a legacy from his hard work, but of the result. He wanted change, but if that meant being erased from the narrative, he would do it. 

 

You glanced over at your most recent letter, knowing it had been the best you'd written in some time, but it still felt  _ wrong. _ Laurens had no issues in saying exactly what he wanted, how he wanted to. It was a gift, something he'd then worked hard on to master, despite his young age. You admired him for such, and wished you’d done the same, in some regards. 

 

Despite not being the happiest with it, you picked yourself up to grab the piece of paper from the floor, wincing slightly as your movements jostled your injuries. Your hand had begun to rest on top of the injury cut into your abdomen out of habit, as if that would heal it. You may have wanted to downplay the seriousness of your wounds in writing to diminish any true worry from your lover, but you’d begun to worry that the gash, one that ran from the left side of your stomach, just above your hip, midway up to your ribs, had become infected. Along with the many smaller cuts and bruises along your knuckles and on your right leg, which hadn’t healed, you were quite battered. But the doctors were inundated with wounded, dying soldiers that had been sent back from the forefront of the war. You’d even heard that the General Charles Lee was being attended to here, having been shot in the side. You couldn’t take away from the care these brave men required, not until you knew your injuries were serious. 

 

You bent over to pick up the letter, unscrunching it to re-read your words.

 

Deciding not to send a ruined letter, you rewrote almost word for word, until you reached the end.

 

You hesitated for a moment before writing;  _ Please do come back in one piece. You speak of gladly joining the fight, no matter the cost, but I wonder if my heart could remain intact if I heard of you being injured. Take care, my love. _

 


	2. A Welcomed Response

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> With help from a friend, and a letter from your love, you hope that this is enough to raise your spirits, and help your injuries heal.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's so weirdly fun to write like this, but I can never tell if it makes any sense XD  
> I hope that you guys enjoy!

_ My Dearest, _

_ I have not heard from you in some time, a fact that had me deeply concerned. Nevertheless, receiving your recent letter has put me, to some extent, at rest. In saying such, hearing of your encounter with the Lobster almost makes me wish to leave this battle behind to care after you myself, but we are both aware that I am situated in a role that none other would truly fill as willingly.  _

_ Mulligan, however, has returned to his apprenticeship in the city, and I highly advise you visit him, at the very least. If you are truly concerned, especially with factors such as your ailment at play, push aside the crowds of soldiers and demand assistance, or else I may call for him to do such on my behalf. Most suffer merely from small ailments, nothing nearly as horrible as what I am aware of you enduring in the past. _

_ Whilst your jests at my passion have not gone unnoted, you will be glad to know that I am not wounded, but yet to convert any of the British Forces. A stubborn bunch, much like their leader. I cannot say this without acknowledging my own hypocrisy, considering we have the most stubborn man in existence on our own force, in the form of our dear tomcat, Alexander. You’ll surely be glad to hear that he is alive and well, and that General Washington is not indulging in his begging to be put in command. Although, after the horrible blunder that was General Lee, perhaps he would not be so horrible of a leader to have. Lafayette - also fine and well - has taken on the role of General after the blunder that was Lee’s leadership. Naturally, he is brilliant, but it is a fact that does little to surprise me. The man always was a mastermind in terms of strategy. _

_ I apologise if this correspondence seems rushed, from fighting to writing, to keeping the slave owners at bay, barely do I get a moment of solitude, let alone a moment to truly write in the poetic form you adore so. Perhaps soon there will be a moment of rest where I can be certain my writings are put more eloquently.  _

_ Until then, my love, remain safe and in good health. I will write Mulligan to be sure he checks on you.  _

_ Yours,  _

_ John Laurens _

 

The letter came far sooner than what you had been expecting, but it seemed that, despite Lauren’s insistence that there was little time to write, Hamilton had rubbed off on him in some ways. Writing like he was running out of time. To confirm that more, Mulligan was knocking at your door not long after you’d finished reading your own letter. You were just glad that you'd remained by the door while you read, having been both too excited and terrified by the possible contents to move whilst you read. You weren't really sure if you could have rushed to the door if you'd been anywhere else, thanks to the immense pain you were in.

 

Your injuries had not improved since you last wrote to Laurens, a fact that concerned you, but not enough to push aside crowds in the way your love wished you to. You had neither the strength, nor the will. These men were fighting for your, and every American's, freedom, even if they were only hindered by small ailments, they were more deserving of treatment than you. Besides, from what you'd heard, 'small ailments', as he has called them, seemed to range from broken bones to gunshot and stab wounds. A little cut like yours wasn't enough to disrupt the work doctors were doing to aid these men.

 

Even so, you were in great pain. Not just your abdomen, but other areas of your body ached in fatigue, despite doing very little moving around. You had been sick, throwing up the contents of your stomach in the back garden whilst trying to get some sun, passing out in the kitchen, on the stairs, in the hall, waking up to find more bruises and injuries from the falls. You'd barely eaten, unable to hold much food, and anything left in your cupboards after not shopping for weeks would need to be cooked, an effort you couldn't put in at the moment. As well as feeling it, you looked unwell, skin lacking its usual brightness, cheeks more hollowed, and your eyes, that would shine with passion and confidence, were now dulled and exhausted.

 

It seemed it was noticeable, too, as once Hercules stepped into your home, he was questioning you on what had happened, who it had been, if you remembered a face.

 

Not even a greeting was uttered before he was whisking you into your own living room to check over your injuries, the look on his face upon seeing it helping regret form much quicker in your mind. Seeing the multiple unhealed abrasions and bruises wasn't helping.

 

“How on earth did you let this get so bad?” He asked, voice genuinely quiet as he stood up to grab a cloth. Due to all your movements, you’d been constantly bleeding from the gash, the crimson colour staining your skin. A sickly yellow green substance had begun to seep from areas in the injury, that stung and pained in ways you couldn’t put into words. To add to this, pressing into your abdomen anywhere was cause for great pain also, a dull ache a constant reminder of your ailment. You had kept it covered, dressing it daily, but despite using every ointment and medicine you had or knew to make, nothing had worked in healing it. You hadn’t even left the house, in fear of more attacks whilst you were weakened. 

 

“The soldiers need medical attention far more than I, Hercules. Besides, the streets have been far too dangerous for me to travel alone, and that is without the injury as a significant factor.” You muttered, him not replying until he was in front of you with a damp cloth, shaking his head. 

 

“You cannot neglect such a wound. You have no idea what could have been laced upon that weapon, it could have been poisoned, tainted with a deathly disease! We don’t know what lengths the British could go to just to weaken those still here in the city.” He insisted as the cold cloth swept across your stomach, making you hiss both at the pain of him applying pressure to the wound, but also due to the coolness of the cloth, “You aren’t looking particularly well, either.”

 

“Oh, why thank you, sir. Such the flatterer-”

 

Hercules fixed you with a quick, serious look, “I mean it. Do you feel unwell?” He questioned as he cleaned away some of the greenish gunk that was collecting at the thickest part of the cut. Despite it barely being disrupted, blood slowly sept from that same spot, Hercules cursing softly in annoyance under his breath.

 

“Occasionally there’s a feeling of lightheadedness,” You supply, “Lack of energy, general pains in my abdomen, but I wonder if it’s just typical symptoms of catching a cold of sorts. Nothing horrible enough to elicit a panicked response.” You tell the man, attempting to put him at ease. Anything you said, he would almost certainly pass on to your lover, and the last thing he needed to do was worry. He was making history, leading the Black Battalion. He needed support and love, not another reason for worry.

 

Hercules rose an eyebrow at your excuses, but shrugged them off and asked you to hold the damp towel to where you were bleeding, knowing it would stop by itself eventually and asking if you wanted anything, food or drink.

 

“No, I’m quite alright. I just ate not long ago.” You lied. You didn’t have any food left in the house, too afraid to travel in the streets to buy food. You saw your friend shake his head, assuring that he would be bringing food and drink over in the very near future, ranting on about the neglect you were putting yourself through. But he soon left you be, rummaging through your nearly bare cupboards whilst you lay alone.

 

As you sat at your couch, leaned back against the coarse, badly sewn cushioned pillows, you daydreamed of Laurens and his endeavours. What would he be doing now? Would he be caught up in a battle? Riding upon horseback, bayonet in hand? Or holding a weapon of entirely different calibre, a pen and paper, sat beside his friends as he pushes for more movement to be made in the war against slavery? Or perhaps now would be one of those times of respite, without direct fear for his life, where he was safe. Maybe he was sleeping, protected by fellow soldiers as his freckled face softened in his slumber. Maybe he was indulging in a meal, laughing at the witty humour of Lafayette, or Hamilton, or perhaps even Washington.

 

You couldn’t bring yourself to imagine him being anything but happy. Barely had you ever seen Laurens anything but joyous, the life of the party, drinking away and singing to the shanties regular patrons had taught him. Thinking of him any other way, even if it was more than realistic in the context of war, felt wrong, like he was some other person entirely instead of your John. His freckled face frowning, body injured, bleeding... It was a thought too alien to give real thought. So instead, you ignored what you knew was a likely reality, and imagined being with your love, laughing and dancing, protesting and writing, talking and being together. His face... God did you love him and his smiling face. 

 

It was with visions of your lover in your mind that you lost consciousness, cognitive functions suddenly falling away thanks to your fatigue and leaving you stranded in a painful pit of darkness, clinging to the thoughts that you used to comfort yourself.


	3. At Least We Shall Be Together

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The conclusion of somewhat dramatic events.

_ My Darling John,  _

_ For too long I waited to tell you of my current disposition, but in my state, I fear I will never again have the opportunity to tell you in person. I have been unwell, horrifically so. The injuries sustained from my altercation with a British soldier months ago left me with a vicious infection, one that I no longer contain the strength to fight against. Hercules has done his best in taking care of me, a favour I wish I could return in kind some way, but there was only so much he could do once he came to my aid. As much as I also appreciate him swearing vengeance upon the Lobster whom harmed me so, please do try to keep him from pillaging a British camp just to find the soldier. Only more harm could come from such a thing than good. _

_ John Laurens, my dearest, my beloved partner, my love for you has not once been shrouded in doubt, a connection so strong I couldn’t imagine to continue my time upon this earth without you by my side. I’m afraid it seems you shall suffer the fate I so feared during your absence. I need not tell you of the guilt that has overwhelmed me at the thought, and the idea of leaving so much in my wake, so little completed. I am terrified. What will become of me in death? What will become of you, of our companions, the cause we cherish and have struggled for so valiantly? But I know that it will be something you shall work tirelessly on upon your return from the forefront of the war.  _

_ Our time together has been short, a love story cut short by the forthcomings of death and disease. Forever will I miss you, my beloved, and even in death, my sole thoughts will be on your face, the times we spent together that were most memorable, sour in taste, or sweet. Both are important in forming a memory of a person, but despite any drawbacks of your character, never would I allow for it to cloud my judgement upon you, merely enriching our time together. _

_ I have few possessions to provide you with, and no legally binding will to abide by, but anything I have, would be a possession I am more than happy to provide to you with no quarrels. For lending me a home to spend my last months in, as laboured by illness I have been, I owe you everything. I also wish to provide your comrades, Marquis De Lafayette, Hercules Mulligan, Alexander Hamilton and any other soldier you see fit with whatever of my things they would like. These men have fought for our freedom, and no matter the outcome of the war, they deserve to be celebrated. I'm certain Hercules will be happy to help himself to my finer clothing, something I have openly discussed with him and agreed upon. Personal belongings, jewels, money, can be split civilly amongst those you chose. _

_ To say I will miss you would be an understatement too grave for me to dare utter. To hold you in my grasp, to be wrapped in your warmest of embraces is a last wish I so want to be fulfilled, but to get my hopes up would be devastating to my already crumbling health. Just know that my endearment for you was is, and forever will be without limitations.  _

_ Forever yours. _

Hercules finished reading over the letter once more, pen that had been held in his grasp returned to its inkwell as he turned to you, a hand holding yours comfortingly. You could feel his thumb brush over your fingers, a gesture that calmed you, despite your fear. You knew you were going to die, a fact that became inevitable in the short span of time between receiving Lauren’s last letter and now, as you lie in bed, pale and weak. You tried to grasp onto Hercules hand in kind, but it was weak, anchored only by his own strength. 

In the last few weeks, the tailor had barely left your side, save the few days where he had important meetings, or was unable to stay away from the war-front any longer, the heat of battle rising now. The man had been providing you care that you only wished you could return, but your health quickly deteriorated. No doctor knew how to save you, all saying you were too far gone for treatments to be sufficient. In the midst of war, unless they knew it would work, they would be saving it for a soldier.

By then, with all the pain you were in, you’d begun to realise the inevitable, without needing diagnosis by any doctors. You were slowly dying, and the chances of ever seeing you love again had depleted to zero.

You didn’t know how, but you knew it was going to be today.

Fear had overtaken you, to an extent. Enough to leave you partially paralysed, not wanting to move incase it somehow sped up the process. Death felt too foreign of a subject for someone of your age, young, not ready, so much still to accomplish.

You just relished in the fact that Laurens would lead a full, happy life, even if it was to be without you by his side.

A knock on the door you barely heard had Hercules apologising and leaving your side. You didn’t mind. He’d done so much. 

You barely had the energy to look up as he reentered the room, not sure how much time had passed. A few seconds, minutes, hours, possibly? Time meant little now, it was all a blur of thoughts and regrets, but also memories.

Hercules looked as if he’d been crying, holding a letter in hand, but you weren’t sure if it was the one he had scribed for you.

“Hercules,” Your voice was barely a murmur, scratchy and weak, “what’s the matter?”

He just sent a weak smile, returning to your side and gripping your hand, “I’m just going to miss you.” He sighed. You attempted to nod, but you didn’t have the energy. Your mind felt fuzzy, the only thing anchoring you to the mortal realm being the hand of your friend.

But moments later, that wasn’t enough, the sensation of touch leaving you, as did the dim light of the room you had grown so used to. Death wasn’t as scary as you’d imagined… silent, but by no means a place of fear.

Hercules watched as you faded away from him, allowing the tears to flow freely. He didn’t dare let go of your cold hand as he read over the name on the letter in his grasp.

John Laurens.

After all this time of hoping, praying that John may return to see you, even if it were in death, had been destroyed before the man's very eyes. He had just lost two friends, comrades whose passion held them to the highest regard possible.

“At least you’ll both be together.” He sighed, using his forearm to wipe away the tears still streaming down his face. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And so ends this mini story! It was only three chapters, but hey, I completed something!  
> I hope everyone enjoyed the story, and if you wish to see anything else from me, want to make a request, I'm more than happy to take a look!  
> Thank you to those expressing their heartbreak in the comments, as much as I hate making people upset, your messages make my day!  
> Thank you all again so, so much.


End file.
